


Risen

by heatherchandler (heathermylove)



Category: Heathers (1988), Heathers: The Musical - Murphy & O'Keefe
Genre: Death sucks you all suck I hate you, F/F, Gen, Inspired by American Gods, Reanimation, Resurrection, Useless Lesbians, angsty, i could have called this dead girl walking but im too good for that shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-11-18 20:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11297940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathermylove/pseuds/heatherchandler
Summary: "You know, usually when people die, they stay dead.""Well, no fucking shit."Or, the one where dead girls do tell tales.





	1. I Just Got Back

**Author's Note:**

> heather chandler fought satan and she WON

Heather Chandler dies at 7:23 in the morning on September 24th, 1989.

The last thing she sees is her frightened, pale reflection staring back at her from the shiny surface of her glass coffee table.

Her last words are "corn nuts" and the last thing she thinks is _God damn it. God fucking damn it, I can't breathe, fuck-_

 

And then, there is darkness.

 

Heather Chandler is buried at noon on September 26th, 1989.

Her funeral service is well attended by nearly the entire population of Sherwood, Ohio, and rain waters the miniature mountain of flowers left on her grave.

 

At 11:11 p.m., Heather Chandler wakes up.

 

She jolts awake and at first, she wonders if it was all a hangover dream. 

 

It is not a dream, Heather decides, as her head makes sickening contact with the lid of the casket. Three things surprise her in that moment: one, that she immediately knows she is in a box and not in a bed, two, that she feels absolutely no pain, and three, that she is dead, but somehow not.

 

The wood begins to crack. Dirt seeps in through the tiny crevice, and Heather immediately throws a fist at the roof of her prison. There is no time for thoughts as the moonlight tantalizes her with a glimpse of its cold, loving light. Heather begins to swim upstream against the sudden sea of dirt pushing down on her. She claws upward, frantic and urgent, reaching for the moon as if she could grasp it in the palm of her hand. 

 

Her hand pierces the surface.The autumn air is cool, but the aftershocks of the afternoon rain are somewhat evident in the slight humidity. The Sherwood Cemetery is silent; as dead as its tenants and as somber as the beatific faces of the statues who stand guard over the graves. Heather Chandler hoists herself out of her tomb. She crawls out of the earth, reborn, and she falls to her knees and begins to retch: formaldehyde, embalming fluid, and doubtlessly, at least an ounce of drain cleaner forcing their way out of her system as she vomits on someone else's headstone. 

 

Heather Chandler stands alone in the cemetery.  _So what now,_ she thinks to herself, wiping some dribble off her chin. _Jesus, I feel..._

 

She realizes then that honestly, she doesn't feel much of anything. She tries to feel confusion, rage, shock,  _anything,_ but the only thing Heather feels is dead. Dead and covered in dirt. 

 

_A shower, that's what I need._

 

After dusting herself off, she weaves through the seemingly endless maze of graves and mausoleums before arriving at the cemetery gates. They're locked, but Heather pries them open with ease, and she begins walking towards the only place she could possibly imagine being welcome. She knows her way by heart; she's walked the route too many times to name. 

 

If someone were to look out their window on the night of September 26th, 1989, they would've probably been somewhat suspicious of the teenager roaming the streets leaving a trail of dust in her wake. Perhaps someone would have called the police and that would have been the end of that.

At around 11:52 p.m., Heather Duke hears a knock on her door. 

 

 

 


	2. Kumbaya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heathers Duke and McNamara are adjusting to their demotion from trio to duo. They weren't expecting a repromotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow!!!! thanks for all the kind words so far, it really makes me happy.  
> tw for eating disorders, some death stuff, suicide ment

On the night of September 26th, 1989 in Heather Duke's house, MTV is blaring softly on the TV set in the living room, Heather McNamara is sprawled on the couch, her eyes watching the ceiling fan make its eternal orbit, and Heather Duke is digging into her fifth or sixth bowl of ice cream. 

In the span of the two days after Heather Chandler's death, Heather Duke has eaten more food than she has in the past six months.

It feels cathartic. Heather has always feared her bulimia would kill her. She feels a twinge of guilt for the relief she felt when Heather McNamara called her on the phone, sobbing hysterically that their first-in-command had killed herself. _Praise Jesus, Alleluia._

As she is about to partake in another sinful bite of Rocky Road, someone knocks on the door three times, sharply and urgently. Heather McNamara mumbles as she snaps out of her trance-like state and Heather Duke nearly drops her spoon. 

"I'll get it," she says, reassuring Heather McNamara, who lets her focus drift back to the fan. It's the best she can do to pretend like she's not broken inside after the funeral. 

A thousand things could have been standing at Heather Duke's front door: a police officer, a door-to-door salesman, a religious nutjob, or a long-lost relative bearing news of a lost fortune. Of all the things that could have been behind that door, Heather Duke was not expecting to see Heather Chandler, caked in grime and still wearing the prim pink dress she'd been buried in. Even under a layer of dust, she still looks imperious. 

"What the fu-" 

"Please don't scream." Heather Chandler's tone is calm, yet commanding, light as air but as sharp as steel. 

"What the fuck?" Heather Duke repeats herself, unable to look away from the visage of her dead best friend. 

"I know this is...." Heather pauses, searching for the right word. "Unexpected." 

"Unexpected?!" Duke laughs, more out of shock than out of amusement. "You're fucking-" 

"Dead," Chandler interrupts coldly. No need to rub it in." 

Heather Duke can't seem to find any words. Her mouth hangs slightly open. She blinks, as if when she opens her eyes again, Heather will disappear.

Suddenly, Heather McNamara calls out from the other room. "Heather, everything okay?" 

Heather's heart catches in her throat. 

Heather Chandler's face remains stoic and unmoved, but Duke catches her shift uneasily, the way she always does - did - when something puts a wrinkle in her schemes. _She wasn't expecting Heather to be here too_ , she realizes.

"Ev-everything's fine," Heather Duke lies, waving Heather Chandler into the house. She hastily shuts the door. "I'm, uh, going to go up to my room for a bit. You should go to sleep, Heather. It's been a rough day." 

"Mmkay." There's a moment of stillness before Heather McNamara finally says, "Night, Heather."

Heather Duke begins marching up the stairs, Heather Chandler following closely behind. Her movement is stiff and jointed, and Duke grimaces when she realizes Chandler is tracking dirt throughout the house. She makes a note to clean it up later, before her parents come home from their business trip, or wherever the hell they are this week.

Neither girl attempts to make eye contact with the other. Heather's about to open the door to her room when Heather Chandler stops her. 

"Let me use your shower." It isn't a request; it's an order. 

Heather had been glad to bury the old Heather Duke alongside Heather Chandler: one who always bent over when she was told to bend over, shut up when she was told to shut up. But still, she feels a certain sense of allegiance. Heather nods quietly and lets Heather into her room.

"I still have some of your old clothes that you left the last time you slept over," Heather offers, helpfully. That actually elicits a smile, or something resembling a smile, from Heather Chandler.

"Very very." Chandler wrings her hands together. Duke twitches as dirt falls to the floor. "You don't mind if I... uh, undress or anything, right?" 

Duke nods. She doesn't mind; the Heathers had seen each other naked countless times. Duke had always taken pride in the level of intimacy she shared with Heather and Heather. It also served as motivation for her to lose weight. 

 _Old Heather,_ she has to remind herself.  _Bulimia is so '87._

Heather Chandler begins to writhe her way out of the fugly pink sack her parents had had her buried in.  _Pathetic,_ she thinks.  _I should have burned this thing months ago._ She regards the thing in disgust before doffing it. After she's taken it off, standing bare in nothing but a bra and underwear, she notices the wide eyes of Heather Duke boring into her abdomen. 

"What's your damage?" Heather hisses, irritated at the ogling. 

"Sorry, sorry, sorry... it's just..." Duke raises a shaky finger. "Your chest." 

Heather Chandler looks down at her chest. Aside from the obvious, extreme padding in the bra (understandable, she has to admit), there is a large surgical incision on her chest. 

"Jesus."

It's Y-shaped - starting from the top of each collarbone, meeting right between her breasts and extending down to right above her bellybutton. It's sutured shut neatly and precisely. Heather suddenly remembers the term for the procedure; her father had used it once when he grumbled about a homicide case he'd had to tackle.

"Autopsy." 

Duke blinks. "But why?" 

Chandler scoffs, heading into Duke's bathroom. _Pillowcase,_ she wants to say, but restrains herself before turning the shower knob to the hottest setting.

While she waits for the water to heat up, Heather strips off her lingerie and regards herself in the mirror.

She doesn't look  _too_ dead, really. Well, she's covered in dirt and her tits are sagging, but other than that - she can tell there's been a good amount of cosmetics applied to her face to make her countenance a little more lively. She runs her fingers over the stitches on her chest. She has to wonder why the fuck she'd had an autopsy, anyway.

 She knows the answer though. Mr. Chandler, the lawyer wouldn't let his  _darling girl_ go six feet under without getting absolute verification that no foul play had been involved. Wait. Shit.

"Hey, Heather?" Chandler calls through the steam. "Have Veronica and Billy the Kid been arrested yet?" 

"For what?" Duke calls back, amused. "Puking on your shoes and shooting Kurt and Ram with an empty gun?"

 _Son of a motherfucking bitch._ She steps into the shower, but doesn't feel the heat at all. She doesn't even feel the sensation of wetness as the water soaks her, cleansing her of the cemetery and all the death that lingers in that dust.

She's too nervous to fuck with her hair, but she cleans her body gently. The water begins to run brown and creamish with a mixture of dirt and cosmetic cream. Heather wishes she could feel more rage than the small amount of anger her unfeeling corpse will allow.  _They killed me,_ she realizes,  _and they got away with it._

 

In her bedroom, Heather Duke stares blankly at a point on her wall, reeling in shock.  _There is a dead girl in my shower._ This cannot be real. 

She can hear Heather quietly humming 'Material Girl' to herself as steam fogs up the bathroom mirror. She pinches herself, fully expecting the sting of pain that comes immediately afterward. It seems like something out of a dream. But no, somehow, life had decided it wasn't done with Heather Chandler. Or perhaps Heather Chandler had decided she wasn't done with life.

 

Chandler turns off the shower and covers herself with a towel. Without all the grime and makeup, she truly does look like a corpse. Her skin is pale as a sheet, tinged with purple and blue. 

"Can I do anything for you?" Duke tries to find something to say. "Do you want anything to, uh, eat?" 

"Seeing as my stomach's been sewn shut and at least one of my digestive organs has probably been removed, I'll take a hard pass." 

"Oh." 

"There is something you can do for me, Heather." She steps forward, imperious as ever even when she's wrapped in a towel. "Can you tell me how I died?"

"You don't remember?" Heather Duke lets out a little laugh, unintentionally. "You killed yourself." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there will be more mcnamara next chapter i promise 
> 
>  
> 
> check me out on tumblr @ jkwynn.tumblr.com!


	3. A Brief Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short remembrance of the calm before the storm, and the cause of Heather Chandler's return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've been on vacation for a while but i finally (FINALLY) had a stroke of inspiration and wrote two chapters of exposition in one day.

September 24th, 1989. They leave Heather Chandler's house at around 8:30. Veronica leaves with a blank expression on her face. The last few moments of Heather's life are playing in her mind on repeat like a broken tape. J.D. drags her by the wrist towards his motorcycle. 

"Stop thinking about it," he tells her, as if they haven't just murdered someone. As if all they broke was a glass table. 

All Veronica does is nod. She's still trying to get Heather out of her head, staggering, choking, dying. She clings to J.D. as he speeds down Main Street. She sees Heather everywhere - in the faces of the beautiful bikini-clad blondes on street posters, in the red of the buildings' universal brick facade, and in the icy grey of the sky. A storm coming. 

The bike screeches to a stop, and Veronica is awakened from her trance. They're stationed in front of a Snappy Snack Shack. Reading the confusion in Veronica's eyes, J.D. shrugs. "What can I say? I need my fix." She rolls her eyes. 

They're washed over by the fluorescent lights, nondescript music, and identical aisles that give places like the Snappy Snack Shack an unearthly atmosphere. J.D. beelines straight for the slushee machine, while Veronica wanders the aisles. 

She catches sight of the Corn Nuts and is instantly brought to tears. She stares at them as Heather's choked last words echo in her mind. 

"Veronica."

She jumps back, nearly knocking over a shelf of potato chips. 

"I was just wondering if you wanted one too... it's on me." J.D. waves his cup of ice and artificial flavoring in the air. 

"Um, okay. Sure. Thanks, J.D." 

He fills her cup with cherry, then beckons her over to the check-out counter. "Here's to Heather Chandler," he says grandly. 

"To Heather Chandler. May she rest in peace." They toast, then both sip in harmony. 

As they leave the Shack, J.D. grimaces from a brain freeze. "I think you meant to say, may she burn in hell, darling." 

"I said what I said." She crosses her arms. Her face is stoic for a second before she's washed over with a fresh wave of guilt. "She's - she's following me, J.D., I can't get her out of my head-"

"She's gone, Veronica. She can't hurt you anymore." 

"That's not what I meant." She studies his face, observes his beady eyes, constantly calculating. "I don't get how you're so fucking calm about all this. We just killed someone, for God's sake. Don't you feel even a bit guilty? Or scared?" 

"Shh." He strokes her cheek, wiping away a tear, but there's no warmth in his fingertips. "Here. I have something for you."

"What is it?" 

"You'll see." He reaches into the right pocket of his trench coat, and for a moment she flinches, scared he's reaching for his gun again. He fishes around for nearly a minute before finally producing a shiny, gold, object. "There. My lucky coin."

He places it in the palm of Veronica's hand. It's not American currency, or any currency she recognizes, for that matter. It's engraved with a symbol she can reasonably infer to be the sun, and inscribed with a language she doesn't recognize. "...Thanks."

"My dad gave it to me when I was a kid. He says it was from one of his clients - a museum owner." 

Veronica can't tell whether he's lying or not. With J.D., there's no knowing, really. She quirks a brow at him as she runs her fingers over the symbol on the coin. 

"It'll protect you," he reassures her. "Promise." 

For now, that's enough to get her back on the motorbike. The storm clouds are pooling in the sky above them, and Veronica suddenly feels glad that she has protection from the coming storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're enjoying my work so far, please comment/give kudos/bookmark! and as always, thank you for reading.


	4. A Brief Interlude, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the events of Chapter 3

The day of the funeral. After Heather's burial, the cemetery slowly empties out. Veronica stays behind, waiting for a chance to speak alone with Heather one last time. 

"Um, Veronica?" Heather McNamara approaches her, hands in her pockets. "Sorry to bother you, but Heather is having a sleepover with me tonight and she wanted to know if you wanted to come. Like old times and stuff." 

"Oh," Veronica says. "That's... um, tell her that's nice for her to offer, but I need some alone time right now. Thanks, Heather." 

"Okay.... see you, Veronica. I know this is just..." McNamara pauses, searching for the right word. "Hard. On all of us." 

"I know." Veronica says. "Call me, okay? I'm here for you. And tell Heather that too." 

Heather's been in the ground for about an hour before the cemetery is finally empty. 

"Hi." Veronica says to the fresh mound of dirt. "Um, I know this is fucking ridiculous, but I didn't know what else to do. I guess I just wanted to talk to you one last time." 

Silence. 

"Look, I hope you know that this wasn't my fault." More silence. "Okay, fine, it was my fault, but it was also J.D.'s fault for not telling me that I picked the wrong cup, okay?" 

Nothing answers her but the faint cry of a bird in the distance. 

"And I'm sorry. I'm really, really, sorry. You didn't deserve to die. And I feel bad about it, but... not as bad as I should. And that's only making me feel worse. Like a knife twisting in my side. Maybe that's the real reason I'm here. To try and get that knife out." Suddenly, an idea strikes her. 

"Here." Veronica reaches into her pocket and pulls out J.D.'s coin. She kneels on the grave and gingerly places it where she imagines Heather's heart to be. "I don't deserve this. You do." 

She's about to say something else when a drop of rain hits her nose. "Oh, shit. I should go now. Thanks, Heather. This was a good conversation." 

The drop turns into a drizzle as Veronica leaves the cemetery. She does not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoy what i do, please hit kudos/bookmark/comment! and thank you for reading my work!


	5. Lazarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations are made. The world begins to come undone. Jason Dean realizes something is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its been 84 years and for that i apologize.... schoolwork is always my first priority and i've been having a pretty rocky semester. i finally have some downtime though!!
> 
> edit: just realized i shifted this entire chapter into past tense. please don't kill me. i've fixed it so it is now in present tense, the way god intended it to be

The girl and the corpse stare at each other.

 

As always, it is almost impossible to read Heather Chandler and her thoughts. Heather Duke draws back from her superior, clutching her arms to her chest defensively. The air is thick with steam, and beads of sweat begin to glisten on her forehead. She flinches. She waits.

 

Heather Chandler is a marble statue, carved by the hands of a Renaissance master. Duke is unnerved by how still she stands. Unmoving. Unblinking.

 

Finally, the dead girl speaks.  “I beg your pardon?” Cold. Colder than she’d ever sounded in life.

 

Duke suddenly becomes aware of her nails digging into the flesh of her forearms. She flinches and unwraps her arms from around her chest.

 

“I said, you killed yourself.” It dawns on her all at once, then. A knot begins to form in her core. “No. You didn’t.”  
  
“No.” Heather Chandler shakes her head slowly, her lips trembling. Sadness? No. Barely concealed rage, maybe. She can't tell anymore. She is a dead, unfeeling thing now; no room for emotions in a heart that doesn't beat.  

 

“But they found a note.” Duke is still in denial. Suicide is bad, but murder is worse. And sure, she’s had dreams about inflicting divine retribution upon Heather, she’s even prayed for God to do it for her. Her pulse becomes rapid as she becomes overcome with guilt.

 

“Heather.” Chandler carefully unwraps her towel, and Duke twitches again at the sight of her autopsy stitches. “Are you really _that_ much of a pillowcase?” She pauses, but Duke’s expression is still one of bewildered confusion. “God fucking damn it, Heather, do you remember the reason why I let Veronica Sawyer become one of us in the first place?”

 

Duke had always seen Veronica as a kindred spirit. They shared a sense of bitter resentment, although they both had different ways of channeling it. She’d marveled at the way Veronica scrawled in her journal in unreadable script. For someone with a knack for forgery, she had incredibly shitty handwriting.

 

Handwriting.

 

“Oh, God, she wrote the note.” Heather pales. “Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus, what the fuck.”. Of _course,_ Heather wouldn’t have used the word myriad. Especially not after spending an entire lunch period complaining about how that word had cost her a test grade in English. Heather sits on her bed, reeling in shock.

 

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t her fault. I’ve got a hunch - that James Dean wannabe son of a bitch made her do it.”

Jason Dean. Of fucking course. The boy who brought a gun to school, pulled the fourth Heather down from the top of the social ladder, and unexpected Brutus to Heather’s Caesar.

 

 _Et tu, Veronica?_ Duke imagines her saying dramatically. _Then fall, Chandler!_

 

It's enough to bring her to panicked laughter. She falls onto her bed and begins mumbling to herself, trying to make sense of everything.

 

“I’m going to borrow some pajamas, if that’s okay,” Chandler says nonchalantly, ignoring Duke’s breakdown. “And you said you still have some of my clothes- ”

“In my closet.” Duke cuts her off, pointing at the closet door _(why did I do that, she still knows where my closet is, stupid bitch, pillowcase, idiot idiot idiot!)_ with a shaky hand. “Your parents are having an estate sale tomorrow. I could buy the rest of your clothes… I mean, if you want. I’m sure it’d be okay.”

 

“As long as they don’t end up in Courtney’s hands.” Chandler chooses a set of silk pajamas and slowly slips them on, as if she's afraid she’d break if she moved too harshly. Duke watches her in fear and awe. She’d always feared Heather Chandler. But this is a different fear. She doesn't know how to name it. All she can do is watch her dead best friend get dressed.

 

Duke is about to ask another question when a gentle knock startles both Heathers. Before she can say “In a sec”, Heather McNamara has already swung the bedroom door open. “Uh, sorry to bother you and stuff, I just wanted to grab my…”

 

Heather Chandler’s stormy eyes stare back at her in surprise.

 

“Toothbrush.”

 

* * *

 

It isn't long before Jason Dean realizes something has gone missing.

 

He doesn't know what has disappeared, or how he knows.

 

It's a subtle, tugging feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

 _Something is rotten in the state of Ohio,_ he thinks to himself. What it is, he can't tell.

 

It pulls him out of his house. Onto his motorbike.

 

He doesn't know why, but he has to go to the cemetery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey writer's block: FUCK YOU!
> 
> i'm so sorry for the radio silence, and i'm so sorry for not updating in like, a century. i promise i won't leave you guys waiting that long again, i've just got so much going on.....
> 
> as always, thank you for reading! let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> dont forget to give kudos, comment, or bookmark if you're enjoying it!  
> i'd love to hear your feedback :)


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